


Trap

by thehonestman (orphan_account)



Category: K-pop, Pentagon (Korea Band)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Identity Issues, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Sad, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24009361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thehonestman
Summary: It’s a safe in-between place where he can hide: somewhere between door open and closed, somewhere between Hyunggu and Kino.
Relationships: Jung Wooseok/Kang Hyunggu | Kino
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	Trap

Even from the dead center front of the formation, Hyunggu can’t stop his eyes from drifting to the back of the group. Watching from the reflection of the practice room mirror, he says nothing as Hui and Jinho execute their moves with a slight stiffness; holds himself back from commenting on Changgu’s lack of confidence and Shinwon’s lack of focus. They’re doing fine, for the practice room, but as some of the taller members in the back fumble amongst themselves, he does a double, triple, quadruple check as he notices they’re not quite getting it.

“Wooseok-ah. Step in, out,” he demonstrates, and it’s not for the purpose of embarrassing him. “Yuto, you’re missing arms, jump, arms.” The two of them watch, breathing heavy, hands on hips, until they go over it again, this time alone. The others watch on in practiced, resigned silence, not going until Hyunggu looks away from them, a silent sign of his approval.

The members know Hyunggu well, and this militant side of him is nothing new; this drill sergeant is no stranger. It’s something of an inside joke, at this point, because this isn’t _Hyunggu_ speaking. It’s _Kino_. Over the years, Hyunggu appears to have adopted some kind of Jekyll and Hyde complex, in which Hyunggu and Kino are two very different people.

Kino demands perfection from the members, holds them all to the nearly impossible standard that he holds himself to. Kino stares them down in the practice mirror to fight that battle in silence, and the members say a prayer that Hyunggu comes back in time to save them. Hyunggu, who is insecure and giggly and clings to others as though he can’t support himself. Hyunggu, who disappears and puts on the Kino mask when other people are looking.

Kino is in the practice room today, and this is nothing personal.

“Yes, Kino-ssi.” This is nothing personal. 

Hyunggu watches again as they do it correctly a second time, and he returns to a more relaxed state as they finally pay more attention and hit the moves right. He doesn’t miss a step of his own in the meantime, wouldn’t dream of it, because there’s no place he feels more alive than when he hits every move, drills it into every one of the members until they follow in his footsteps. It’s about competition, he knows, but it’s also about the frustration of feeling like the only one who wants something more for himself. But he shakes that thought, because he knows it’s not true. He loves Kino--wishes Hyunggu had his confidence--but Hyunggu must return, sometimes.

After a particularly focused, repetitive segment of practice they take a break, and the members break up, some heading to grab water or wipe their sweat with a towel, some checking their phones. Hyunggu moves closer to the mirror, checking his reflection when he lets his eyes drift over his right shoulder when they catch on something in the back of the room.

Wooseok is lying on the practice room floor on his back, long legs bent, spread facing the mirror. He has his phone in his hand, close to his face, completely shut off from the world, but Hyunggu stares heavily at him, invading his space from afar. From this angle, Hyunggu can only see part of his face: this side of his soft jawline leading up to long, fluffy hair, and one calf eye blinking slowly at the screen. 

When he bites his lip, Hyunggu moves his eyes back down, suddenly nervous, but never taking his eyes from where he’s staring. He’s conscious enough to know he’s being a bit of a voyeur as he lets his eyes trace down Wooseok’s legs, but they’re _right there_ , and his shorts are loose and short enough that the pale, tender underneath of his thighs are exposed. Hyunggu takes a sharp, silent breath in.

It makes sense that he’s known for those legs, Hyunggu thinks, seeing as they’re about as long as Hyunggu’s whole body and as thin as his wrist. But if there’s one thing Hyunggu has noticed it’s that they suit him well, and it’s a charming point on him. He stays there for a moment as he stares, not really registering anything except the nervous pounding of his heart, but he blames that on the cardio.

Wooseok suddenly brings his legs together and sits up, dropping his phone into his lap, and Hyunggu snaps out of it. His eyes slide away and they happen on the side of the practice room, near the window, and he almost misses Jinho standing there alone, not moving or doing anything. In a brief instant, they catch eyes, and Jinho looks at him in a certain type of way, as though he’s been watching him for a while, and suddenly Hyunggu feels like a ghost, as though everybody can see through him though he’s not even aware of what they see. But then the moment is gone, because Hyunggu looks away first. 

A moment later he risks a glance back, but Jinho isn’t looking anymore, isn’t even standing in the same spot. Hyunggu, for some reason, feels like he’s lost some kind of game, but he doesn’t know when it even started. He swallows heavily, trying to collect himself amidst the unexplained uncertainty of his body.

“Let’s go again,” he calls out, and the members reassume their positions.

Hyunggu avoids eye contact with Jinho for the rest of practice, and lets Kino take over from there.

Jinho makes his presence known later that day by knocking gently on Hyunggu’s studio door. Normally quick to make a joke or burst out in song, Jinho instead settles into the chair silently, gently, as though he’s afraid of breaking something. Hyunggu looks away from his computer in concern, but Jinho gives him a smile that reminds him of the way his father smiles at him, and at least momentarily, Hyunggu’s worries subside.

“Can I queue up some songs?” Jinho asks. Hyunggu pushes himself away from his desk, gesturing vaguely to the desktop. Jinho busies himself with the queue. “Were you going on live?”

“No, just sitting here.” For a while, they sit and talk normally, not quite paying attention to the songs that play in the background, but enough to register them. Hyunggu is almost on the verge of letting himself relax finally, when he hears the instrumental introduction to “Always Difficult, Always Beautiful” come over his speakers.

He looks over just to check, and sure enough, Jinho has queued it up. He suspects it was intentional, and he laughs because it’s funny, the way hearing your own work out of context is always funny.

“I realized I never got to tell you how much I like the song, Hyunggu-yah.” This much is true. The song is still brand new, and all of the attention surrounding it has been on Wooseok anyway. Writing with him and having his approval had been enough, not to mention the passive appreciation from the other members who don’t have to say it out loud to tell him it’s good. Hearing it so directly from Jinho like this is strange, though, but not unwelcome. Hyunggu turns down the volume. “I think it really touches a lot of people, you know?”

Upon hearing this, Hyunggu falters, and turns, frozen, to look at Jinho. The inspiration for the song is out there, sure. It’s all public knowledge. But for Jinho to point it out so blatantly is something else, and Hyunggu suddenly realizes how much he’s taken that passive appreciation for granted. “It’s quite . . . deliberate.”

Hyunggu looks at him closely, seriously, but Jinho just smiles right back, open and whole-hearted. Hyunggu searches in his eyes for something deeper, tries desperately to figure out what exactly he means by that, how much he _knows,_ but he can’t figure out anything. He looks for something malicious, something containing some kind of hateful, deceitful alternative meaning, but Jinho doesn’t let a single thing pass through his eyes. He just keeps that smile on, though Hyunggu notes that it slips down more and more the longer he takes to say something in response.

“Thanks, hyung,” he settles on, though it doesn’t quite taste right in his mouth. “I’m pretty proud of it.”

Jinho’s smile falls all the way off, then perks up again suddenly. Hyunggu just blinks at him, scared, still. But then everything is over, because the next song comes on, and the rest of the night flows as does the queue.

Jinho lingers around the studio for a bit before leaving, and Hyunggu stares at the shut door for a long few moments after he leaves.

* * *

It takes only a few days for Hyunggu to forget about the incident with Jinho in his studio, but he’s brought back to it when he hears Changgu’s voice carrying down the hall early one morning.

“I’m not too sure about it,” he’s saying, and Hyunggu stops himself from coming out of his room and following the voice. Changgu sounds uneasy. Agitated. Which makes Hyunggu uneasy. Agitated.

“What do you mean?” Hyunggu hears Hongseok, and wonders who else is in on this seemingly important conversation that he has not been invited to. He stays in his bedroom doorway, and while he’s not making a particular effort to listen in, it’s clear that Changgu is trying to keep his voice down. Whatever they’re discussing, he figures, must be serious.

“Don’t you think it’s a little . . . obvious, or something?”

“The lyrics?”

“You know, just because the fans . . . they know what it’s about. Where he got it from.” Hyunggu feels his adrenaline spike, paranoia racing. He can’t prove they’re talking about him, just yet, but it’s unlikely to be about anything else.

“I think the song alone is fine,” Hongseok sighs. Hyunggu holds his breath in the brief pause. “If the meaning wasn’t there, I guess.”

“Yeah, it sounds good,” Changgu says, and by his tone Hyunggu can tell he’s not quite over the conversation like Hongseok seems to be. “But what is that saying about him? How are people going to read into that?”

“The fans like that kind of stuff. It’s not really a big deal, anyway.”

“I know, it’s just . . .” Changgu trails off, and Hynggu starts to feel himself really crumble. _But what is that saying about him?_

“I get it, it’s weird,” Hongseok says with a tone of finality.

“Yeah. It’s weird.” At this point, Hyunggu has frozen in place once again, one hand on the doorknob, halfway between pulling it shut and shutting out the others forever, halfway between pushing it all the way open and throwing himself at the members, demanding an explanation. In the midst of his decision-making, he locks eyes with Jinho before he even hears him coming around the corner with suspiciously good timing, as though he’s been standing nearby the whole time. Maybe he has, but he doesn’t let it on as he just locks eyes with Hyunggu briefly, offering him a quick nod, before heading down the hall toward the kitchen where the voices had been coming from.

Hyunggu stays put, feeling a little trapped, but doesn’t let himself get too comfortable. The only way out is through, after all.

He listens in again as this time, Changgu and Hongseok’s voice carry down the hall, now making conversation with Jinho, who doesn’t seem to have hesitated to insert himself into their conversation. A few other members start to make their way in the same direction, passing by Hyunggu’s room as they wake up and start their day. And eventually, he decides to make his way there himself.

The walk down the hallways feels like half an hour as opposed to a few seconds, and as he lets himself into the kitchen, he feels, for some inexplicable reason, that everyone is going to be staring at him, that everyone is in on something he’s not, that he’s going to step into the room and everyone’s going to stop talking, the way people do when the subject of their conversation suddenly appears. But he gets none of that. He gets usual greetings from the members, and tries to make himself seem as normal as possible when he speaks to them, as though he’s not drowning in his paranoia. But the ease with which they address him is comforting, at least for now, and he settles into a chair next to Hongseok at the table, cup of coffee in hand.

“Do you want to eat something?” Hongseok asks, no concern clear in his voice, just casual awareness. Hyunggu takes it hard.

“Not hungry.”

Eventually, Yuto and Wooseok make their way into the kitchen as well. Hyunggu brings his coffee to his lips, and from over the brim of the mug, he watches Wooseok come in, take something from a nearby cabinet, then leave without saying a word. Hyunggu’s eyes follow his every step, purposely focusing on him in order to avoid the knowing eyes of Jinho, lounging nearby, or anyone else, for that matter.

Hyunggu dumps the rest of his coffee in the sink, and heads back to his room.

_But what is that saying about him?_

Jinho is surprisingly more direct when he comes to Hyunggu’s studio for the second time in two days.

“I heard what Changgu said about the song,” he starts with, and Hyunggu is trying to be okay with this. “I know you heard it too.”

“It’s fine, hyung,” Hyunggu laughs. “It’s really okay. Doesn’t matter.” Jinho knows it does, though, knows the way Hyunggu will mull over their conversation relentlessly, knows he will take it to heart and throw away every genuine compliment he’s ever been given. He’ll forget the “passive acceptance,” and think it must have really been passive hatred all along.

“It’s just.” Jinho licks his lips, looks unsettled, uncertain in his words. “You know how he is, Changgu. He’s . . . ” he gestures vaguely around. “He’s from a different world.” This much is true. Changgu spends much more time in the public eye than any of them, with his acting and all. He can’t afford controversy, knows he can’t associate himself with anything even mildly provocative. And aside from this, it’s about his upbringing, too. His formal, conservative parentage has not prepared him to tolerate such things, so in either environment, he can’t quite get away with what the others can.

Hyunggu is on the verge of willing away the conversation; something along the lines of _I know, hyung_ and _it’s nothing personal, hyung_ and _you don’t have to explain, hyung_. But instead of lying to the one person who seems to care, he leans into it a bit, and he risks, for the first time, showing his genuine concern.

“And Hongseok . . .” he trails off, not quite posing a question or making a direct statement. It’s a safe in-between place where he can hide: somewhere between door open and closed, somewhere between Hyunggu and Kino.

“Hongseok is . . . such a boy. Such a _mensch_ , you know?” And Hyunggu nods, because he does know, and because he’s decided to shut the door. This is enough of this, for today.

“They’re harmless,” he says to finish, but Jinho doesn’t look satisfied with that. He squints.

“I’m not worried about them hurting you,” he points out. Hyunggu quirks a brow. “I’m worried about you hurting yourself.”

Hyunggu thinks it’s a valid fear, because he has the same one himself.

* * *

The practice room doesn’t quite look the same after that. Where there used to be frenetic, tense energy flooding everyone’s veins, there’s now long, expectant silences after they run through the routine, waiting for the snap to come. But it never does. _Kino_ does not seem to come to practice at all anymore, and it shows. The members go mainly uncorrected, and while they try to start correcting each other as opposed to Hyunggu holding them all to his own standard, they never quite get accustomed to not hearing orders barked at them, and not having to look over their shoulder for Kino after every run-through.

Hyunggu stays in his head the whole time. Present, but never really _there_ , and the adrenaline-pumping, exciting tension of challenging themselves and improving their work is replaced by fearful, cautious tension that they settle into uncomfortably, never quite sure what direction to take. And Hyunggu’s not sure either, anymore, if his lack of animation has anything to say about it. Long gone are the sassy facial expressions in the mirror, the provocative body rolls, and the playful dances in-between routines. In their place are instead subdued movements and dull eyes that don’t quite seek out criticizing others anymore, as perhaps they’re busier criticizing himself.

This goes for day-to-day life, too. Where Hyunggu used to decorate himself with bright colors and jewelry, he gives these up in exchange for plain jeans and t-shirts. He reduces his interactions with everyone in general--reduces himself, entirely. The uncertainty is palpable in all his actions, always seeming to second-guess everything he does and says for the fear that someone might find something out that he doesn’t know about himself. And along the way, the “sensitive Kino” jokes resurface with a passion, only adding fuel to the fire, and Hyunggu decides that he’s never hated a word more.

There’s a brief moment, one day, where Hyunggu really starts to see the effects of what he’s done, and it’s after a practice during which he’s been called "sensitive" exactly three times, and fought back exactly zero. After a final run-through, there’s a moment of silence in which no one moves, but no one wants to look at anyone to blame.

“Hyunggu-yah,” Hui calls out, and all the others look up at him shocked, as if he’s finally said something they’ve all been dying to say. “What do you say, go again?” And now they all look to Hyunggu as they so often do, and Hyunggu crumbles into himself.

“No,” he says. He blinks around the room momentarily, then drops his eyes down to the floor. “Let’s finish up.” The aftermath of this declaration is silent, and they disperse to go on to do what they want, mainly staying in the practice room to play around, chatting playfully before heading out. Hyunggu sticks around, consumed by something in his phone when he feels a presence approaching him. 

When he looks up, Wooseok is resting an elbow on his shoulder, talking to him, but not looking at him. Hyunggu watches the side of his face as he speaks with a pout.

“It’s horrible,” he’s saying. Hyunggu can barely hear him. “You should show them how to do it.” He finally turns to look down at Hyunggu, sliding his elbow off his shoulder, opting instead to hold onto his bicep as he pulls him gently toward some of the other members. The attention, as painful as it is, feels good, and Hyunggu is happy to be wanted.

“Do what?” Hyunggu asks, because he’s only been paying attention to Wooseok’s face. They stop in front of Yanan and Changgu poorly dancing to a TWICE song, and Wooseok groans, unsatisfied with their performance. His every noise echoes in Hyunggu’s mind, and he laughs something fluttering.

“Show them how to do it,” he repeats, and it suddenly becomes clear that Wooseok is doing this to make him feel included, but only out of pity. The joy of being wanted dissipates from Hyunggu’s mind like a mist and is replaced with a sudden feeling of disgust, and with Wooseok still holding onto his hand, clinging tightly, he forces himself to let go.

“No,” he says through a smile. “You guys show them.” He gestures to Wooseok and Hongseok. “I’m going to go shower.” He turns to head out of the room with a tight smile, ignoring the others’ complaints as they all watch on in pity.

Some time passes this way, in an abstract, uncertain level of interaction with each other, and the whole time they’re all silently thanking God for the fact that they’re not performing for the time being.

* * *

Jinho lets himself into Hyunggu's studio when he finally decides to visit again. When he enters, Hyunggu is faced away from him, eyes glued to his computer screen as “Always Difficult, Always Beautiful” plays lowly once again, because Hyunggu has given up. He’s not moving, despite there not being any video on screen, and despite Jinho entering. Jinho sits down on the couch, elbows resting heavily on his knees. He smiles.

“Our Wooseokie works hard, right?” Hyunggu smiles genuinely, but still doesn’t turn to face him.

“He really does.” A comfortable silence falls over them while they let the rest of the song play without further interruption. Once the song ends, Hyunggu turns to face Jinho. Jinho, who somehow knows exactly how to start this conversation, as though he’s had it ten times over, and it feels more like a nuisance than genuine concern when he starts speaking, hands now on each knee.

“You know--” he starts soberly, and Hyunggu cuts him off with a laugh.

“When did these talks become such a regular thing?” He asks, looking to buy time. “Why so serious?” Jinho just smiles that fatherly smile, but doesn’t let himself say anything directly in response. The question doesn’t require one. The night is young, and there is plenty of time for a conversation that Hyunggu may not be ready for, but must have for the sake of himself. Jinho turns to look at the screen, where the still image of the song’s cover remains, and he nods toward it with a knowing smile, but ignores the way Hyunggu’s cheeks light up.

“I just want to let you know,” he pauses, being selective about his words, “that you don’t have to change yourself for anything.” Hyunggu stares at him intently but says nothing. Jinho takes it upon himself to continue. “I know you’re trying things out and you’re figuring out how to _be_ , but I’m just saying there’s no right way to _be._ ” He tries to smile, to soften the blow of what’s to come. “You just have to be yourself.” Hyunggu takes a second, then, looking into Jinho’s eyes with a straight face before breaking suddenly into a painful smile and laughing a painful laugh. He fiddles with his sleeves, drops his eyes down to his hands.

“Suddenly,” he says, “I’m not so sure you know what you’re talking about.” Jinho purses his lips, nodding gently as he takes a second to look around the studio. Hyunggu is hunched over, eager to hear what Jinho has to say, but Jinho can’t let himself be too obvious. He doesn’t meet Hyunggu’s eyes.

“I know this is about . . . _love.”_ He finally snaps his eyes over to Hyunggu, who swallows heavily. He squints. “And I just want to say that this kind of _love_ looks like a lot of different things.” A pause. Jinho is choosing his words carefully, and Hyunggu is all ears, but with great caution. “I will admit that I don’t know what it looks like in _myself_ , per se, because I’m not . . . _in love._ ” They both laugh. Jinho continues. “But I know what it looks like in other people, and you don’t have to change yourself to meet what you think it looks like.” After some hesitation, and perhaps, some internal war lost, Hyunggu speaks up.

“What _does_ it look like?” 

“Well sometimes,” he tosses his head to the side, contemplating, “it looks like . . . Yuto,” he finishes, and both feel their stomachs drop. Hyunggu’s eyes bulge, but Jinho forges on because it’s necessary. “He’s quiet, and he’s gentle, and he wears all black, and he’s not that confident, but he owns himself. Comfortably, though, because that’s _him,_ and he knows it, you know?” Hyunggu sits on that for a minute, stomach in knots but realizing that probably, this is the only time he’ll have the confidence to talk about this.

“What else does it look like?” he whispers. Jinho claps his hands together and leans back against the wall. He hesitates, wondering whose business it is to be spreading. But Hyunggu’s not in any position to use it against them.

“It also looks like Shinwon,” he says. Hyunggu takes a sharp inhale, and Jinho nods. “He’s loud and outgoing, and he acts like a slut, but he’s funny and he’s supportive, and he wears band t-shirts, and it looks good on him, right? That’s his _thing_. And he knows it, and he feels good about it.”

“You’ve--what? You've talked to them about it?”

“Just like we’re talking now.” Hyunggu knows, then, that there’s no more hiding. He reaches his arms out in front of him, stretching, staring down at his lap. When he picks his head up, he’s smiling.

“How did you get so smart?” Hyunggu asks, and Jinho laughs, and then comes the part Hyunggu’s been dreading asking about, though he fears he already knows what’s coming. “Do you know if anyone else in our group is . . . _in love_?” he asks with sweaty hands rubbing on his jeans. Jinho draws back, smiles at him pitifully as he shakes his head no. 

“I’m sorry Hyunggu-yah. He’s not.” Hyunggu feels tears start to form, so he drops his head again and shakes it between his shoulders, but he holds them back. His eyes are wet when he picks his head back up.

“I wasn’t asking about anyone in particular, I just . . . ” he trails off because he knows it’s a lie. It’s even more clear when Jinho lets his eyes shift to where Wooseok’s name is still on the screen. No words need to be said as Hyunggu exits out of the screen so it’s black. 

“Listen, Hyunggu-yah. For people like you, this industry . . . it’s a trap, okay? I’m sorry. But please understand that you’re not the only one in it, and that there’s a way out that won’t kill you.” Hyunggu nods, numb, unrelenting. “And also, please know that the others, Changgu and Hongseok and them, they’re not the ones who set the trap. They just have no idea it’s there.” Hyunggu nods again. 

“I know,” he says, and it’s simple, but it’s true, because he knows Jinho is right. They sit in silence for a while, thinking and sitting and sighing.

“It’s late,” Jinho says suddenly, and Hyunggu sees that the clock tells him he’s right. “We should get some sleep.” Jinho stands up, keeping a hand on Hyunggu’s shoulder. He goes to leave, but notices Hyunggu’s not getting up yet. “Not going to bed yet?” he says as he turns back. 

“No, I’m going to stay up for a little bit.”

“Goodnight,” Jinho turns to leave. 

“Hyung,” Hyunggu calls out, and stops him. He stands then, and pulls Jinho into a gentle hug. His voice shakes for the first time as he says “thank you” into Jinho’s ear. Jinho doesn’t say anything, just nods and squeezes a bit tighter before pulling away. 

“I hate this sweater,” he says as he looks Hyunggu up and down. Hyunggu rubs his nose, but doesn’t smile. 

“I do too.” Jinho pats him on the shoulder once again before finally passing through the doorway. He calls back at the last second. “And if you see Kino, tell him we miss him.” The door knocks shut.

And as a single tear finally lets itself fall from Hyunggu’s swollen eyes, he sits back down at his desk chair and throws his headphones back on, pulling up Soundcloud. As he sits on his thoughts, he realizes that even if Jinho is right--if there’s a way out of the trap that won’t kill him--there’s probably no way out that won’t hurt, which means he just has to go straight through it. And so even as long shadows pass by his door as the others settle down for the night, Hyunggu just keeps on working, hours into the night, and in turn, keeps on hurting. The others don’t have to know. Not even Jinho.

The only way out is through, after all.

After a short while, Hyunggu is back to playing the song out loud in the studio, as if Jinho’s words have stopped haunting him. At some point, Wooseok himself walks by, knocks on the door before letting himself in. When he hears what’s playing, he smiles and starts to dance a bit in place, just nodding his head and humming along as Hyunggu forces his eyes away and fiddles with the keyboard, nerves aching, heart more tender than ever. Once it’s over, Wooseok finally speaks up, and Hyunggu finally turns his head to him. Wooseok looks him in the eyes and stops what he’s saying mid-sentence. He looks shocked.

“Have you been crying?” 

“It’s nothing,” Hyunggu says, and turns back to the screen. Wooseok stands up, staying next to him, and starts running his fingers through Hyunggu’s hair gently, but not asking anything of him, not making him turn to look at him.

“A little sensitive, tonight, no?” And Hyunggu laughs as though his heart isn’t breaking. 

“Something about that song, I guess.”

“But it’s a good song, Hyunggu. With an important message,” he says, and Hyunggu feels his heart rip out of his chest, fly out of the studio, and settle somewhere else. “You’ve done well,” Wooseok continues, and Hyunggu nods, still not looking until he feels Wooseok slide his hand down the side of his head, grip his chin and pull gently until he looks in his eyes. This time, the attention doesn’t feel as good as it had in the practice room. Now, it just feels like burning.

Wooseok is still standing, holding direct eye contact with Hyunggu who sits in front of him, holding his face gently in his hand. In any other situation this would look inappropriate, and Hyunggu prays that no one else walks in.

“So what is it, then, Hyunggu-yah?” and Hyunggu just stares up at him and smiles a toothy grin, fighting a trembling lip as he feels another tear fall from his eye and land in Wooseok’s palm. He feels more trapped than ever with his head in Wooseok’s hand, and it feels particularly like a trap when Wooseok opens his mouth one more time because really, he can’t quite explain why there’s no distinct answer to his question: _So what is it, then, Hyunggu-yah?_

Hyunggu cries harder. Wooseok tips his head up higher. And in the briefest moment, Wooseok looks at him as though he knows, precisely.

“What’s there to cry about?”


End file.
